


Eternity

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Series: Canticle [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 22:25:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4410104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's ridiculously cold--the sort of cold Cullen had never felt before Skyhold--and sleet continues to fall with all the intensity of a mage's ice storm, turning the paving stones into traps waiting to catch the unwary. It's a dangerous storm, the kind that will keep the surgeons busy tomorrow with frostbite and twisted ankles and broken heads, the kind that would keep any sane person inside for all but the most dire emergencies.</p><p>Cullen hardly notices it. He's aware of the icy ground only because it slows their pace, aware of the sleet only because it glitters in Dorian's hair, aware of the cold only because Dorian shivers. His own skin is too hot, over-sensitive where it brushes against Dorian's and impervious to everything else. The walk from the library to Dorian's room above the garden seems to take forever, and pass in a blink all at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> Because apparently stuttering Cullen is a thing for me this week. This is a lot more tentative and uncertain that I usually write him, but eh, what the hell. It was fun.
> 
> Another story written quickly, not edited extensively. Feel free to point out mistakes.

It's ridiculously cold--the sort of cold Cullen had never felt before Skyhold--and sleet continues to fall with all the intensity of a mage's ice storm, turning the paving stones into traps waiting to catch the unwary. It's a dangerous storm, the kind that will keep the surgeons busy tomorrow with frostbite and twisted ankles and broken heads, the kind that would keep any sane person inside for all but the most dire emergencies.

Cullen hardly notices it. He's aware of the icy ground only because it slows their pace, aware of the sleet only because it glitters in Dorian's hair, aware of the cold only because Dorian shivers. His own skin is too hot, over-sensitive where it brushes against Dorian's and impervious to everything else. The walk from the library to Dorian's room above the garden seems to take forever, and pass in a blink all at the same time.

The room is dim in the storm-dark afternoon, no fire or candles lit, but Dorian sends a tiny wisp up to the ceiling and turns to him, eyes wide. Cullen stares back, leaning against the door he's just closed against the wind, and _now_ the storm has frozen him, pinned him in place and closed his hands into useless fists as his mind scrambles for what to do next. It's been so long since he touched anyone except himself, and all his partners in the past have been women. He wants so much to make this good for Dorian, but he has no idea how, and that uncertainty holds him in place.

It's the same uncertainty that kept him quiet for months, long after he had admitted to himself that he wanted more than Dorian's friendship. On the battlefield he may be fearless, but stripped of his sword and armor and given only words as a weapon, he hardly knows what to do with himself, where Dorian bends language as easily as he bends the Veil, or the elements. Their first few games had been full of uncomfortable silences, even Dorian's prodigious gift for talk overwhelmed by Cullen's wariness.

Their games had only been an excuse, after all, so that Cullen could determine whether this Tevinter magister was a threat to the Inquisitor, or the Inquisition, and he'd fully expected Dorian to grow bored after a few weeks. Which would have been fine. Once Cullen's suspicions were laid to rest, he had no need to take an hour out of his very busy day to do something so self-indulgent as play chess. Except that somehow, he always seemed to find himself in the garden around noon, and he'd grown to like Dorian, and it would be rude to decline an invitation so graciously offered, and he'd been raised not to be needlessly rude.

And Dorian _didn't_ grow bored, and Cullen found himself talking, willingly, about everything and nothing, glad for the brief respite from his duties. Even more surprising was Dorian's patience: unlike so many people, he would sit and wait when Cullen's mouth seemed determined to make him sound a fool. As a general rule, Dorian isn't overly supplied with patience, but he never seems to run out no matter how long Cullen spends chasing down the right words.

Unexpected as that was, Cullen didn't have so many friends that he would spurn the chance to make another. He was content with that friendship, too, until the day he walked into the garden and Dorian looked up in welcome with a smile that cut straight through him. Not because it was suggestive, or leering, but because it was neither: not Dorian's usual smirk, but a delighted smile, as if Cullen's mere presence was a gift.

Cullen wants to see that smile again, instead of the half-wary look Dorian is giving him now, as if waiting for a blow to fall. His mind is still blank, though, as blank as it was in the library until Dorian's voice broke on his name. Even then, it wasn't wit or a talent for language that saved him, and here he is again, struck speechless.

He's always valued deeds over words; the mouth lies so much more easily than the body.

Leaving the safety and support of the door is the hardest part, Cullen finds; the second step is easier, and the third easier still, bringing him close enough to touch Dorian's shoulder, wet and chilled from the storm outside. His fingers explore that small island of bare skin, mapping the contours created by bone and muscle and tendon as if to memorize them. This is something he's thought about nearly every day, sitting across the table from Dorian and trying not to stare, reminding himself not to touch, no matter how tempting it is.

Now he's allowed to touch. Dorian wants him to.

Dorian wants _him_.

That thought is almost enough to start him laughing again, just from amazement, but he's not sure he could explain the joke, so he drops his mouth down to follow the path his fingers have laid out. Dorian's skin is cold under his tongue, and Cullen licks away a drop of water, delving into the hollow between neck and collarbone.

Dorian's fingers twist through his hair the way they did earlier, pulling his head up for another kiss, and Cullen's only too happy to go along. This kiss is harder than the one in the library, almost violent in its intensity, and Dorian's grip on his hair is tight enough to make his scalp tingle. Cullen's own hands fumble at the buckles on the front of Dorian's jacket, with a noticeable lack of success despite his best efforts. Or the best effort he can give with Dorian's tongue in his mouth and Dorian's groin pressed against his.

Eventually he pulls the right combination of straps in the right direction and is rewarded with Dorian's bare skin under his hands, too cold but growing warmer as Cullen shoves off the jacket and runs his palms up the muscled planes of Dorian's stomach. He remembers belatedly that his hands aren't exactly soft--cracked from too much cold, with a swordsman's calluses--but Dorian groans as they scrape over his nipples, so Cullen leaves off worrying about it and just repeats the motion.

Dorian's hands turn frantic, letting go of his hair to tug at Cullen's cloak and shirt and trousers, fingers as clumsy as Cullen's were a second ago.

"Boots," Cullen manages to gasp out, when Dorian tries to shove his trousers down.

"Fuck," Dorian mutters, and then they're falling.

Only after he hits the mattress, Dorian on top of him, does Cullen realize he was tripped, and he laughs, because he can't feel this good and not laugh. Dorian huffs like he's annoyed, but he's smiling against Cullen's mouth.

"I have a proposal," Dorian says breathlessly.

"I think I already said yes," Cullen says, and tries to recapture Dorian's mouth.

Dorian evades him easily. "In the interest of moving things along, may I suggest a pause to remove our clothes like civilized people?"

"Does that mean I have to let go of you?"

"Only briefly." He's wearing a soft smile, much softer than the one Cullen's accustomed to seeing, and with more than a tinge of wonder to it. Dorian leans forward as if for a kiss, only to turn his head to the side at the last second and bury his nose in Cullen's hair, his mustache tickling Cullen's neck. His chest expands as he draws a deep, deep breath, and his whole body presses down against Cullen's. The weight of him is a surprise, but Cullen doesn't mind; it feels more like an anchor than a prison, and when Dorian rolls away, the room feels very cold.

Not that he goes far, just to the edge of the bed where he curses his boots and the tight leather of his trousers. Cullen resists the temptation to follow him and instead works on toeing off his own boots, heedless of where they fall so long as it isn't on the bed. The wet linen of his trousers fights against him, clinging to his skin until he swears at it and Dorian laughs.

Wet linen is easier than wet leather, however, and he's free of his clothes while Dorian is still trying to roll his trousers down his legs. The temptation Cullen resisted a moment ago is too strong now, and he crawls across the bed to kneel behind Dorian, one knee on either side of him. In the wisp's dim light, the arc of his spine practically begs to be touched, so Cullen does, kissing as far down as he can reach without moving away.

_"Festus bei umo canavarum!"_

"What's that mean?" It's an idle question, most of his attention on watching his hands on Dorian's back. The muscles there are wiry rather than dense, and Cullen's spread fingers reach almost halfway around his ribs.

"It means stop if you don't want me to fall off this bed," Dorian says tartly, and shrugs Cullen's hands away.

The power to render anyone clumsy with desire for him isn't something Cullen's had much experience with, and he can't stop himself from abusing it a little. It's just a small touch, two fingers making their way up Dorian's back along his spine, but Dorian hisses at him until he laughs and desists.

As soon as Dorian kicks his legs free of his trousers, Cullen lifts him up until they're pressed back to front, Dorian straddling his thighs. Dorian's hand presses over top of Cullen's where it rests against his stomach, holding them together, and he draws a breath to speak.

Before he can, Cullen blurts out, "I've never d-done this b-before."

Dorian jerks, and while it's more than pleasant with his ass pressed against Cullen's hard cock, it's also a little embarrassing. Then Cullen realizes what he said, and hastens to add, "With another man. I-I mean, I just mean..." It's easier to make the admission when he can't see Dorian's face, but it's still not easy. He wouldn't be able to say it at all with Dorian's eyes on him. Finally, he whispers, "You'll have to t-tell me what you want. D-do you want t-to...d-do you want m-me to..."

And sweet Andraste, why has that damnable stutter decided to make a reappearance? He hasn't stuttered like this since-

He knocks the though aside before it can fully form and focuses on Dorian's skin under his hands. "T-tell me what you w-want."

Dorian starts to laugh, but before Cullen can even finish pulling away, Dorian has turned around on his lap to take Cullen's face between his hands. "That's an impossible question," Dorian murmurs. "Rather like offering me an unimaginable fortune, then asking me whether I would prefer to receive it in gold or jewels."

"I-I think there's a joke about b-being hard I c-could make," Cullen says, and he blushes as he says it.

"Mmmmm," Dorian purrs, mouth exploring the underside of Cullen's jaw. "Not a joke at all, is it?" Then he settles more firmly on Cullen's lap, leaning in to whisper in Cullen's ear, "I want you in every possible way." His voice is no longer one of practiced seduction; now it's raw and rough and desperate. "But when I take you, I want to do it right, and I don't know that I have the control for that tonight."

Cullen rests his forehead on Dorian's shoulder, dizzy just from the sound of his voice.

"Lie back," Dorian says, pushing his shoulders down onto the bed. He slides up Cullen's body, fumbling for something on the bedside table, and the new position puts his chest right in front of Cullen's face. Without thinking, Cullen cranes his head up to suck on one nipple, the skin cold and pebbled against his mouth. He has a second to wonder if men even like this the way some women do, but then Dorian groans, and the arm supporting his weight quivers.

The skin warms under his tongue and he sucks harder, dragging his teeth back and forth until Dorian wrenches himself away. "You really _will_ be the death of me," he says into Cullen's chest as he kisses his way down the center of it.

Cullen's inclined to think he's got that backwards, especially when Dorian's mouth closes around his cock. Looking down the length of his own body, Cullen is mesmerized by the movement until Dorian looks up and catches him. He shuts his eyes quickly, embarrassed, but Dorian lifts his mouth long enough to say, "I like knowing you're watching."

Cullen groans and opens his eyes again, looking down to find Dorian looking up. That's almost more than his control can take, and he bites the inside of his cheek, hard. The sight of Dorian smiling around his cock does _not_ help. His eyes slide closed again despite his best efforts, his hips pressing up involuntarily.

It's all he can do not to whine when Dorian's mouth moves away, but it's replaced almost immediately by an oil-slicked hand that strokes the entire length of his cock while Dorian kisses the insides of his thighs. He's shaking, ready to fly apart at any second, and he gasps out Dorian's name, unable to find the words he needs, hoping Dorian will understand anyway.

The hand on his cock goes still then vanishes, and Dorian is crawling back up his body to lie on top of his chest and kiss him, open-mouthed kisses that are hardly any better for his control. It isn't the weight of him on Cullen's chest that's making it so hard to breathe, because when he pulls away to kneel across Cullen's hips, breathing becomes more difficult rather than less. Dorian pauses there, looking down at him, just short of fucking himself on Cullen's cock, and Cullen realizes Dorian's deliberately teasing him. Teasing both of them.

"Please," Cullen whispers, and Dorian grins.

"Your wish is my command," he says, and Cullen can take some small consolation from the fact that his voice isn't entirely steady. His groan as he sinks down is entirely _un_ steady, a groan Cullen echoes as he clutches at Dorian's hips.

"Maker's breath," he gasps out. Dorian bends forward to kiss him, and he can't stop himself from begging again. " _Please._ "

Then Dorian is rising above him, all hard muscle and brown skin marked by paler scars, and Cullen wants to stop time right here, keep this moment perfect and unchanging forever. Except now Dorian is moving, rolling his hips, and Cullen can't breathe, and he thinks, _No, this, **this** is perfect, I want to keep **this** moment,_ only to think it again in the very next second, and the next, and the next.

Dorian is watching him, his face still full of wonder, and Cullen pulls him down for a kiss. It's too brief, and when Dorian leans back, Cullen follows him up, chasing his mouth. Dorian makes a noise in the back of his throat as the angle changes. He also wraps his legs around Cullen's waist and his arms around Cullen's neck, so there seems little point in pausing to ask if he's all right.

His cock rubs against Cullen's stomach as they move together, and Cullen feels around on the bed until he finds the vial of oil that Dorian used on him earlier. He spills a good bit of it on the sheets, but the only way he could apologize for it would be to stop kissing Dorian, and that's not something he particularly wants to do right now.

He wraps his fingers around Dorian's cock, and Dorian makes that noise again, pressing it into Cullen's mouth as the kiss turns desperate. The closeness of their bodies makes it difficult to move his hand, and his grip feels strangely backwards, but he listens to the rhythm of Dorian's breathing and adjusts accordingly. Harder, here. Softer, there. Now faster, now slower, long strokes along the entire length and small twists of his wrist to tease just the head.

He's so absorbed in matching his movements to the small cues Dorian gives him that he doesn't think about what their rising intensity means until Dorian groans loudly and spends in his hand, his body clenching tight around Cullen. Before he's even stopped shaking, he's moving again, his hips thrusting as he rides Cullen to his own completion, murmuring, "Yes, yes, yes," against the side of Cullen's neck the entire time.

They collapse slowly backward onto the bed, Dorian unlocking his legs from Cullen's waist but otherwise not moving away. His kisses are languorous now, slow strokes of his tongue that still send sparks jumping through Cullen's body as the two of them settle into the mattress.

After a few minutes, Cullen pulls away and looks up at him, smiling to see the wild disarray of his hair. It's still damp, too, the strands cold between his fingers as he combs it gently back from Dorian's forehead.

Dorian turns his face into Cullen's hand, kissing the center of his palm once, then twice, cheekbone rubbing against his fingers like a cat marking its territory. _Mine._ The look he gives Cullen makes it a question, as if the possibility is so unlikely that he can't believe it without reassurance, and his hand trembles when he brushes the backs of his knuckles along the line of Cullen's jaw.

"Amatus," Dorian whispers. Cullen doesn't need to know what it means: he can guess from the tone, and from the look on Dorian's face, and he doesn't know how to respond. Not because he doesn't know how he feels, but because he can't compress those emotions into something he can voice aloud. As he chokes on everything he wants to say, Dorian's expression turns wary again, and Cullen wants to curse at himself.

Words, words, why is it always _words_? Even when he's calm enough or focused enough not to stutter, pretty speeches are not Cullen's strength. His words are serviceable things, occasionally beautiful but only by the grace granted anything that suits its purpose well. And here, where he feels at least as uncertain as Dorian? Everything that's happened in the last hour is an impossibility. Belief requires an act of will right now, and that leaves nothing left over to pound words into suitable form. He has no elaborate declarations he can make, no eloquence to make up for his own awkward, undesired silence.

"I love you," he whispers, willing Dorian to understand, and believe. _Mine, if you want to be. Yours, if you want me to be._ The words are all he has, but they're also everything he has. Not a taking, or a giving, but an exchange. An offering, in the truest sense.

Dorian closes his eyes tightly, as if against some terrible pain. He doesn't repeat the words, but his body curls in and down, pressing his face into the curve of Cullen's neck where he sucks in a shaky breath. Cullen strokes his thumb down the knobs of his spine, his other hand twined through Dorian's hair. It's a long time before Dorian relaxes, before his mouth moves against Cullen's neck again, lips a soft contrast to the coarser touch of his mustache.

"I must be smothering you," Dorian says eventually, and starts to move away. Cullen recognizes the bantering tone, the attempt to put distance between them, and for once he doesn't allow it, hooking his arm around Dorian's waist to pull him back. Dorian ends up on his side, head resting on Cullen's shoulder, and after a hesitant second, he lets his arm rest across Cullen's chest.

"I love you," Cullen says into his hair.

 _"Festus bei umo canavarum,"_ Dorian says again, a barely audible murmur this time. Cullen's reasonably sure it's not an endearment, at least not in Tevene, but perhaps it is one in the oblique and tilted language that's usually the only way Dorian knows how to express affection. That whispered "amatus" from Dorian means more to Cullen than "I love you" shouted a hundred times by someone else.

The storm outside rages on, but that isn't what keeps Cullen awake long after Dorian has drifted off against his shoulder. He saves up every sensation, from the wool blanket scratching his leg to Dorian's soft breathing across his chest. There will be other nights--amazement is finally settling into belief--but he hopes he never takes even one of them for granted.

Because _this_. This is the moment he wants to keep forever.

**Author's Note:**

> And now that I have exorcised this plot bunny (can I even call it that when it has no plot?), maybe I can work on something else. I tried to work on one of my long fics yesterday, and wrote two sentences in forty-five minutes (not actually kidding), because all my brain wanted to hand me were bits of this story.


End file.
